


(not so) silent night

by firebreathing_bitchqueen



Series: Midnight at the Mandragora (and other stories) [3]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Closet Sex, Cunnilingus, F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quiet Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27810424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebreathing_bitchqueen/pseuds/firebreathing_bitchqueen
Summary: After convincing Morgan to attend the mayor's annual holiday party with her, Leila shows her some quiet appreciation.
Relationships: Female Detective/Morgan (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Series: Midnight at the Mandragora (and other stories) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002582
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	(not so) silent night

**Author's Note:**

> while trying to come up with a summary for this I had the terribly stupid thought, "why come out of the closet when you can come IN the closet" and now you all can have that dumb thought in your heads, too.

The whole evening had been fucked from the start. Morgan had no idea why she’d agreed to come in the first place, but she was reminded with every passing second that it had been a spectacularly, royally stupid decision.

She scowled openly when some cheerful soul had the merry and goddamn bright idea to instigate a singalong with the band (which was already live and therefore already too goddamn loud to be in someone’s _house_ , even if the house could probably fit several other houses in it). Now she had to hear the actual musicians and the impromptu carolers in some sort of holly jolly horror show. Whatever legitimate talent the so-called singers may have had under normal circumstances had been totally drowned out by the metric fuckton of liquor they’d consumed, if their off-beat swaying was any indication.

Plus they smelled like they’d been marinated in straight moonshine.

Morgan’s scowl deepened and she moved further (although unfortunately not entirely) out of hearing range of the merry band of booze hounds. She was especially disinclined to be here given that her date had been spirited away less than thirty seconds after they’d walked in the door.

She still wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to come.

Well. She was, actually.

She had come because Leila had asked her.

—

_How nicely would I have to ask to convince you to come to a party with me?_ All soft voice and large hopeful eyes.

_What party?_ Morgan asked against her skin, preoccupied with undoing the row of buttons along the back of Leila’s sweater.

_The mayor does this stupid holiday party thing every year and I have to make an appearance. It’s all very bourgie and festive, but we don’t have to stay long. I just hate going alone. Pretty please?_

_I do love it when you beg, sweetheart_ , she’d said, and that had been that.

—

She just wasn’t sure why she’d agreed so readily. Although she was positive she absolutely would _not_ have agreed if she’d known Leila would disappear in a cloud of Tina’s perfume the second they got there.

And then, as if she’d summoned her, Morgan felt a small, soft hand skating along her lower back, coming to rest on her hip. “Hey, you,” Leila murmured.

Morgan turned and couldn’t repress the smirk that tugged at her mouth when she looked at Leila. Partially because she looked even better than usual in her cocktail dress and heels that reminded Morgan exactly how much she appreciated the detective’s ass. And partially because Leila was so very clearly tipsy.

“Planning to join the chorus line, sweetheart?” Dark arched brow, wicked glint in her grey eyes.

Leila didn’t release Morgan’s hip, but turned to assess the revelers near the bandstand, leaning a bit into the other woman. “What can I say? WASPs have impeccable taste when it comes to a dependence on large quantities of expensive liquor. The open bar is one of the only highlights of having to attend the mayor’s parties.” She winced when one of the carolers made a valiant (and startling) attempt at hitting the final high note of “O Holy Night.”

_More like_ un _-holy night,_ Leila thought. “I don’t think there’s enough alcohol in the world to tempt me into joining _that_ party.”

“I think they each drank at least a bottle of vodka.”

“Good thing I stuck to tequila, then, huh?”

“And not an entire bottle of it.”

By the stage, the singing party guests switched abruptly into some bastardization of “Christmas Song,” which they were either trying to sing in harmonized rounds or were all experiencing their own personal time lines.

“I hope none of them actually attempts to roast chestnuts on an open fire tonight,” Leila commented.

Morgan snorted. “After that much liquor, they might spontaneously combust.”

Leila giggled and her hand tightened against Morgan’s hip, the other coming to rest on her forearm, lightly tracing the constellation of freckles on the stretch of exposed skin not covered by her long shirt sleeves. While she was nowhere near as drunk as the wannabe singers, she was definitely somewhere in the neighborhood of tipsy, because she felt flushed and she couldn’t seem to stop touching Morgan.

She glanced around for a moment, thinking. She usually could get away with leaving as soon as the mayor made his usual toast to the town that somehow managed to turn into a toast to himself. If the dwindling line for hors d'oeuvres was any indication, that had to be coming fairly soon. Waiters bearing fresh trays of champagne would appear as if by magic, the mayor would stop the caroling madness, give his too-long, self-aggrandizing speech, and then she could finally be free of this unholy nightmare event for another year.

But the waiters and champagne had not yet materialized. Which meant she had just a little more time to kill.

“Hey,” Leila tilted her face down to Morgan’s, close enough that her lips almost brushed against the hair covering her ear. Morgan was only very slightly taller than her flat-footed, so tonight’s stilettos gave the detective a height advantage that might have bothered Morgan more if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with how well the shoes accentuated Leila’s long legs.

“How nicely would I have to ask to convince you to find a quieter wing of this party?”

—

“You really weren’t kidding about quieter, sweetheart.” They were so close Morgan barely had to whisper to be audible, and when Leila gave a quiet, delighted giggle, the warmth of her breath against the hypersensitive skin of Morgan’s neck sent a shiver down her spine.

She’d pulled them through the first door she found off the corridor outside the ballroom, which turned out to be a coat closet. It was, to be fair, unusually spacious for a coat closet. But it was still a coat closet, and they were barely able to move without bumping into each other.

Not that Morgan was ever likely to complain about being too close, especially when Leila was being so tactile and enthusiastic about that closeness, all slow searching hands and the soft warmth of her lips tracing the line of Morgan’s jaw, the tip of her nose bumping her earlobe before she closed her teeth on it with featherlight pressure.

“Shhh,” Leila giggled when Morgan let out a low growl of pleasure. Outside, the faint strains of a new song from the revelers, drunk and merry with it, were only just audible.

“They’re more likely to hear _you_ if you keep giggling,” Morgan murmured, tilting her head back to give Leila better access to her throat, which she was currently lavishing with kisses. “If they can hear anything at all over that caterwauling.”

She swallowed her groan, though, as Leila dragged her mouth further down her throat, a hand tugging insistently at Morgan’s shirt hem, pulling it free of her waistband and sliding a hand up up up to cup one of her breasts, thumb circling her nipple.

“Oh, _fuck_ , sweetheart,” she breathed, sliding her hands up Leila’s thighs, under the hem of her dress and discovering what she’d assumed were tights were thigh-high stockings and, more importantly, Leila wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Surprise,” Leila half-whispered, half-giggled, hips arching forward towards Morgan. She had to bite her lip to stifle a moan when Morgan slipped a finger inside her and then out, dragging it so very slowly up, fingertip brushing a slow circle light as breath over her clit. “I wanted to be prepared, just in case.”

“Just in case you decided to drag me into a coat closet?”

Another whisper-soft bubble of laughter. “You never know, right?”

“Think you can be quiet, sweetheart?” Morgan asked with a dark, breathy laugh of her own, dragging her hands up Leila’s thighs, pushing her skirt up around her hips and pressing them both against the back wall of the closet before kneeling. She pressed a lingering kiss on her inner thigh, gripping the outside of one knee and tugging gently, keeping her balanced with her other hand while she guided Leila’s leg up, hooking her knee over her shoulder.

Leila tried and failed to contain a whimper at the first warm, slow slide of Morgan’s tongue over her and was rewarded with a brief sucking nip at the crease of her hip, a dark laugh and a teasing, “Not a sound, sweetheart,” before Morgan shifted back between her legs, her lips and tongue gentle yet relentless.

She alternated between light as air flicks of her tongue that had Leila desperately grinding her hips forward with the need to feel _more_ and _now_ and more deliberate suckling that left her trembling and grateful for both Morgan and the back wall keeping up balanced and upright, since she was no longer confident she could trust her legs. 

On and on Morgan lapped at her sensitive, heated skin, working her with relentless focus until Leila’s whole world seemed to be made of her lips and tongue and hands. It was all she could do not to cry out at the insistent, feverish strokes of her tongue, warm and wet and _exquisite._ Leila was somehow already

so

fucking

_close_

her hips arching up, pressing against her mouth with need, her fingers threaded in Morgan’s dark hair but always, even in this haze of desperate longing, her hands were gentle. Always she was careful not to tug too much, cognizant of how sensitive Morgan’s skin was. And then she had to disentangle one hand to cover her own mouth, no gentle restraint in the bite of teeth against the base of her palm, as she felt the silvery shimmering wave of release swell, and she was

_right there_

_right_

_there_

and then it crashed over her, and she was _coming,_ Morgan’s hands the only thing keeping her upright, the steadying pressure of the arm around her waist and the gentle nuzzling kisses against her the only contact points Leila had with reality at that moment. And maybe it was just the alcohol or the rush of whatever happened in your brain after sex or probably both but she was pretty sure she’d never fully appreciated the phrase “weak in the knees” until this particular moment.

Keeping a hand curved around her waist to steady her, Morgan lowered Leila’s lifted leg and rose, tugging her into a kiss that felt oddly tender, intimate in a way Leila didn’t usually associate with her. Morgan wasn’t entirely sure why she did it, except that she wanted to, just as she hadn’t been sure why she’d agreed to come to the party, although she was having very few misgivings at the moment.

“It really _is_ the most wonderful time of the year,” Leila mumbled with a slow exhale.

Morgan groaned, but couldn’t quite bring herself to pull away.


End file.
